I shout on the phone. Apparently. No-one on the receiving end of a telephone conversation has actually complained. To the best of my knowledge. For all I know, they all might be putting the receiver down and listening from a discreet distance. No, the complaint is more localised. It comes from this end.
The other evening when we had guests for supper, the phone went. I answered it in the kitchen. Before I had a chance to inform the caller that we had company, the kitchen door was closed. No it didn't close itself. Dearest had done the business. Well, he certainly had done the business as I coolly informed him the next morning.
I accept that I speak, possibly more loudly than I need to. It is probably a less lovable idiosyncrasy of mine. But I can think of worse. Like leaving your socks on the dining room table. For one.
So last night when I was on the train home from London, having met up with Son et Lumiere who was joining us for an evening meal, I was appalled when he told me I was talking too loudly in the carriage. Honest to God, everyone around me had earphones in, so I thought I was talking at a reasonable level. Have you ever tried addressing someone in the street when you need directions? You get firstly a look of bewilderment that someone can't Google their way out of lostness, and then they have to remove an earphone before you repeat your request. Nobody can hear a bloody thing.
So after a few drinks last night, I decided I would impress with an impromptu piano recital to demonstrate how I've come on. I foolishly thought that alcohol would lubricate my tinkling of the ivories. No such luck. My fingers seemingly had turned into over-ripe bananas and were just as responsive. I laboured on. In the way that only the truly intoxicated can suppress shame.
I finished with a final flourish. Dearest had a glazed expression on his face. Son explained that Dad had retreated to his "happy place".
At least he did not close the door....
Progress.
.
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